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Then, my mind begins frantically racing. I wonder if Reed is his first name or his last, or if it is really his name at all. After all, if he refused to provide his picture, he’s probably using a fake name too. Plus, Rose mentioned this is his first booking with her. But that doesn’t mean it’s his first booking ever. Does this guy get hookers all the time? Am I just the flavor of the week?
I try to forcibly stop myself from overthinking because none of the answers to these questions matter. But then again, if he’s an axe murderer, I’m going to have to plan my escape.
I look around the room, scoping the exits. Good, it looks like there are two nearby, and both are well-lit with green emergency signs. Then I scan the room again, but I don’t see anyone who matches Reed’s description. I check the time: 6:40. We’re supposed to be meeting at 6:45, so surely he will be arriving any minute now. Although I have to admit, a tiny part of me hopes he doesn’t show. I am incredibly anxious.
I decide to make my way over to the bar where I’m supposed to wait for him. God, this is nerve-wracking. I perch on the end seat, decorously pulling my skirt down when the bartender approaches and asks for my order. My stomach flops as I scramble to think of a drink.
“A mimosa, please,” I finally say.
What a silly drink to order. A mimosa is a breakfast drink, but it is all I could think of. Fortunately, the bartender is professional and doesn’t bat an eye. He promptly makes my cocktail and serves it to me with a small orange slice split over the rim of the glass. I thank him, taking the orange from the rim and squeezing it into my glass. I take a deep breath followed by a small but necessary sip to help calm my nerves.
Sitting back, my mind begins to wander again. I try imagining what type of guy this Reed character is anyways. I mean, who just casually up and gets drinks with an escort? And why? Is he unfathomably lonely? Is he too socially uncomfortable to pick up women on his own? Or does he just like to flash his money, thinking he can have whatever he wants because he’s rich?
This whole thing reminds me of an old spaghetti western I watched one weekend with Rose our freshman year. We used to have big nights-in where we would order ridiculous amounts of take-out and junk food. Then, we’d cover the floor with blankets and pillows and arrange our snack assortment in a semi-circle around us on the dormitory floor. We would stream the cheesiest movies we could find and spend the night cracking up and re-enacting them.
One time, we got a corny black-and-white western with crackling stripes on the screen, it was so old. There was a lady of the night who was working at a local tavern, which was impressive in and of itself. At a time where woman barely had the right to exist without a man by their side, she was duping macho cowboys left and right in the old saloon. She would throw the double doors open and swagger right on up to a barstool. Before she could even sit down, men were fighting over who got to buy her first drink that night. We thought she was just fabulous and she was the real heroine of the movie. But what we never considered was what happened after the cowboys bought her that drink. Did they go upstairs for some good times in a private room? Did they make for the stables, for a literal roll in the hay?
I suppose I’m about to find out in a way.
Suddenly, I feel a looming presence by my side. Oh no. My client’s here. I paste a fake smile on my face and force my cheeks to turn up almost painfully. I spin around, but then all the air rushes out of my lungs.
Oh shit. The man beside me is devastatingly handsome with dark blue eyes, black hair, broad shoulders and a wide chest. Even worse, there’s an amused look on that sensual, mobile mouth.
“Hello Lucy,” he drawls. “What a coincidence, seeing you here.”
Oh shit! It’s my dad’s best friend!
3
Shane
I’m at the Hotel Indigo tonight to meet an escort for drinks. Let me just say, I don’t normally do this kind of thing. Earlier this month I got together with a few of the guys for my forty-fifth birthday. The three of us got a limo and went out to some of the most exclusive clubs in New York City.
It was me, Damon Pratt, and George O’Connor. We met years ago when we were undergrads Cornell University. All three of us had different majors, but everyone at Cornell has to take a couple of gen ends, and we all happened to sign up for the only speech course on campus offered after 12 p.m. that first fall.
